Since the start, Arthur had thought you an impossible thief to catch. He’d study your every move, every action, and tried to arrest you several times. After at least ten, he deemed you swifter than a butter-slicked fish. There had been many times he’d caught you stealing from some secondhand store or from the local bakery, but he’d always fail. Attempt after attempt—all unsuccessful. Eventually, the blunders added up, and he put your petty thieving to the backburner to focus on more daring and demanding criminals.
But every time your name would pop up anywhere, or he saw something that reminded him of the way you thieved and the way you moved, he would always return to searching for you. You were the criminal he wanted to capture. You intrigued him so deeply that not even he knew why you interested him so much. Was it because your acts, noble as the Hood, often resulted in you giving a few things to the poor, orphanage children? Or perhaps was it because you always managed to slip from right underneath his thumb the minute he was about to squash you?
Nevertheless, you were his criminal—his thief.
And he… He would soon be your cop.
This morning had been especially strenuous and took a serious toll on the Brit. With a cup of steaming tea in one hand and a slightly burnt scone in the other, he overheard two officers talking about “Arthur’s little thief” and scarfing down a box of doughnuts, laughing along like hyped hyenas.
What pigs… he had thought. The blonde-haired Englishman scolded them promptly and told them to act their age, and both the idea and conversation dissolved.
A few minutes later, Arthur sat at his desk and shifted through a heap of papers, likely dumped there by his fellow police officer, Francis, who acted more like a pimp than a cop. He was likely flirting with the young, female cadets at that very moment. Arthur smiled half-heartedly at the thought and looked through the papers, indulging on the crooks and their various profiles. He paused when he came across a heavy file and briefly leafed through it—something along the lines of a terrorist’s threats of bombings. It was a top case, and he wanted it. But, he was a lesser officer. He wasn’t an elite like that one American he loathed. What a wanker… he thought, pushing the papers back in the file with a huff and storing it away in the pile.
Arthur hunched over in his chair and took the ceramic cup from its coaster. He blew the top of the tea, took a sip, and shut his eyes. Even so, he still needed a case. It’s been forever since he’s arrested anyone or taken on a serious case. He’ll get fired if this keeps up…
Arthur had been invited to coffee by Francis, and the Frenchman had gone off to the restroom after intently staring at this one lass in a Hollywood-red dress for at least five minutes. Arthur exhaled and shifted a little in his seat, watching as a few cars passed him. The light breeze from the passing cars tossed his hair, and he almost closed his eyes to take a brief snooze.
He would later become thankful for this moment when he didn’t decide to sleep.
He saw a hooded, cloaked, dark figure come out of a coffee shop, a warm cappuccino or maybe a latte in a styrofoam cup between their fingers. The Brit rose from his seat, tossing his own cup to the ground, the liquid spilling all over the floor, and headed outside.
Well, at least Francis would have to pay for it.
“H-Hey, you!” Arthur exclaimed, stumbling to grab his gun from his waist. He pulled back the slide and aimed as he neared the alleyway, but the thief had already taken off past the alley and around the corner. The Englishman chased in hot pursuit, going off of the blurs of motion he saw as the thief rounded the corners. He shot his gun as the target aligned with his aim, or at least he thought it had, and missed. He tried again as they turned for another corner. Missed again. Third shoot came, and he hoped “third time’s the charm” was a good superstition to follow.
A loud howl of pain came from the figure as blood flew, and the black mass of mystery fell to the ground. Arthur’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he had become happier than a corgi on stilts. The next, he rushed to the side of the cloaked body, wondering if he had perhaps killed his first man. But, instead of finding any of the results he expected, he pushed over the body to reveal a girl with a blood-soaked shirt and pain riddled all over her face…
You could feel the pain surging from your abdomen. That police clown had shot a slug that grazed your side, far away from any internal organs but close enough to cause excruciating pain. You felt the blood beginning to form a pool, and your head had already started becoming heavy.
“A girl?” the cop breathed, rather surprised. His eyebrows furrowed and his mouth shaped into a frown. What? Had he not ever heard of female criminals? If you weren’t profusely bleeding, this is when you would’ve hatched a plan to escape your new captivity and perhaps gave him a slap over the back of the head for his ignorant stupidity.
“I didn’t know you were a girl…” he mumbled to himself. Out of all the times he had gazed past your file and caught you stealing, he was dumbfounded to determine your gender. All official documents had been destroyed, mostly because of your parents—who abandoned you at a young age and trashed all documents stating that you, ____ ____, even existed. But still. He would’ve never guessed…
“Of course, I’m a girl!” you barked, groaning shortly after because of the pain. The amateur saw this as a chance to flash his shiny police badge. He whipped it out, showed it to you, and said those “famous” words.
“You have the right to remain silent!”